Voyage to Isla de Muertos

Captain Jack Sparrow never thought he’d lay eyes on Isla de Muertos again.

The black silhouette of the island rose from the sea like a nightmare made of stone, unchanged by time or tempest. The jagged cliffs caught the dawn light, throwing long, uncanny shadows across the waves, as if the island itself were a living thing, waiting patiently for him to come crawling back. Which, admittedly, was rather rude of it.

And he had. Against all sense, against the very voice of his own caution, and a rather loud internal monologue about “not repeating past idiocy,” Jack Sparrow had come back.

The Black Pearl creaked beneath his boots as he stepped to the rail. His hand rested on the wood, worn smooth by salt and decades, and he closed his eyes. The wind carried the same briny tang it always had, and for an instant he was twenty years younger, drunk on ambition, the taste of stolen rum still on his tongue. He suspected the rum might still be there, clinging to his molars.

Back then, he’d felt unstoppable. The world had been a map to be redrawn by his own hand. Fortune was something to be claimed by the bold, and death was a tale told to frighten lesser men. He could remember every step he’d taken onto that accursed island, the gleam of cursed gold in torchlight, the way the weight of it had thrilled him, and nearly killed him. It was a minor inconvenience, dying. Rather tedious, all told.

But today, his hunger was different. He didn’t crave riches; no, he’d learned what curses could cost a man. What he sought was proof that he was still himself. That he hadn’t grown so old, so entangled in legend, that he’d become nothing but the stories told about him in taverns. Though he’d heard worse stories. Some quite flattering, actually.

“Strange thing,” he murmured, fingers tapping an absent-minded rhythm along the rail, “to walk an old path with new feet. Or possibly the same feet. They look mostly the same.”

The crew shifted behind him, uncertain. Mr. Gibbs, always the loyal shade at his shoulder, cleared his throat. “Captain…you sure about this? We all remember what happened last time.”

Jack didn’t turn. His gaze stayed locked on the dark cliffs. “Aye,” he said softly. “I remember every bleeding second.”

“But if there’s no treasure...”

“Who said there’s no treasure?” Jack’s eyes flicked over his shoulder. “Not all treasures are silver and gold, mate. Some are…more literary.” He gestured vaguely. “Sentimental trinkets. Notes of questionable poetry.”

Gibbs gave him a wary look but said no more. He knew better than to argue when Jack’s voice took on that faraway edge.

As the Pearl edged closer, the fog parted in ragged veils. The secret cove yawned open, the same as it ever was, and yet Jack felt as if he were seeing it with new eyes. The cavern mouth gaped like an old wound; somehow smaller now that he’d survived it, and at the same time, infinitely more dangerous. A bit like a vengeful mother-in-law.

The anchor splashed down. Ropes were coiled, sails furled, and the hush that settled over the deck was almost reverent. Even the sea seemed to be holding its breath. Which made Jack rather suspicious. When the sea behaved, it was plotting.

Jack hesitated. For the first time in many years, he wondered if he’d have the nerve to step onto that sand. Was he still Captain Jack Sparrow? Or had he become a ghost of himself, chasing echoes of the past because he had nowhere else to go?

He took a long breath. The air tasted of memory and salt and fear. But there was something else, too, something like possibility. And, regrettably, a hint of mildew.

“Ready the boats,” he called at last, his voice carrying in the stillness.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. “Aye, Captain. Though I’ll be honest, it feels unnatural to come back here.”

Jack smiled, slow and wistful. “Unnatural, perhaps. But that’s where we thrive, Mister Gibbs.”

He turned to his crew, men and women who’d followed him through every madness, and raised his chin. “If any of you would prefer to remain aboard, I shan’t hold it against you.”

Not a soul moved. That, more than anything, steadied his heart. Also, he suspected, they were afraid to let him land alone. He’d get ideas.

Minutes later, Jack set his boot onto the sand. The grains were warm even in the dawn light, scratching against the cracked leather of his boots. He felt the old vertigo, the knowledge that he’d crossed an invisible threshold; this was a place where the line between life and death blurred, where curses lingered in the very stones.

And still, it felt like the first time. But different, too. He was different. He had more wrinkles, for one. Character lines, he preferred to call them.

Torch in hand, he led the way up the path that wound among jagged rocks. Every step recalled the old memories; Barbossa’s sardonic smile, the hush of men who’d been alive too long, the whisper of coins that no longer belonged to any living soul.

Somewhere above, a gull screamed, its cry a thin note of foreboding. Jack paused, glancing at the sky. He didn’t believe in omens, he’d survived too many, but the chill that traced his spine was real enough.

“Captain,” Gibbs called softly, “perhaps we should reconsider...”

“No,” Jack said, more to himself than to Gibbs. “I came back for a reason.”

And though he’d told the crew it wasn’t about treasure, he hadn’t spoken the whole truth. Because in the old catacombs of Isla de Muertos, there was one thing he’d left behind. Not cursed gold. Not some trinket of power. Something smaller and infinitely more precious. And infinitely more embarrassing.

At the mouth of the cavern, he drew a breath and lowered his torch. The shadows stretched away into blackness. He swallowed, feeling his heartbeat hammer in his throat. This was the moment he’d dreaded. The moment he’d longed for. The moment he’d rather hoped someone else might do for him.

“Light the lanterns,” he ordered, voice steady.

The crew obeyed. The flickering glow spilled over the walls, illuminating the carvings and the scattered bones. And there, half-buried beneath a drift of sand, lay a small wooden box. The sight of it struck Jack like a cannon shot, so sudden and so vivid he had to close his eyes. And also to keep from laughing hysterically at his own sentimentality.

He remembered the night he’d hidden it, after the curse had been broken and Barbossa lay dead. The gold had gone back to its chest, but this, this box had belonged to him alone. A tiny, plain thing with a tarnished brass latch. No one else knew it existed.

He knelt, brushing away sand with trembling fingers. His crew shifted behind him, puzzled.

“Captain,” Gibbs ventured, “what is it?”

Jack didn’t answer. He flipped open the latch. Inside lay a folded scrap of parchment, stained with seawater and time. He lifted it carefully, as if it might disintegrate. Or catch fire out of sheer embarrassment.

It was a letter. Written in his own hand. Addressed to a woman he’d once loved more than life itself.

Elizabeth.

He’d written it in a fever of regret the night he’d left her behind. He never intended her to see it; never intended anyone to see it. But he couldn’t bear to destroy it, either. So he’d hidden it here, where no one would ever think to look.

He read the first line silently:

Elizabeth, if ever I find the courage to be more than the man you think I am, I will return for you.

His throat closed. The candle flames danced and blurred. He could almost hear her voice now: “Jack, this is terribly dramatic.”

How many times had he thought of her over the years? Wondered what might have been if he’d been braver? If he’d been better?

The twist of fate was cruel. He had returned. But he was too late. Elizabeth had sailed on to a life without him, her legend eclipsing his own. She had become something untouchable, a queen in her own right. And he, he was still a pirate, still running from the same ghosts. Though with much more flair.

But now, reading the letter, he felt something shift. Perhaps this was why he’d come back; to find this fragment of his old self and lay it to rest.

He folded the parchment again and pressed it to his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the dark. And then added, “But in fairness, I did look rather good doing it all.”

For the first time, he felt no urge to deny it. No clever lie to shield him. Just the truth, plain and simple.

When he looked up, the crew were watching him with a strange respect. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t have to. Though he suspected they would gossip about it later.

He set the letter back into the box and latched it shut. Then he rose, every joint aching.

“Mister Gibbs,” he said, voice low but clear, “burn it.”

Gibbs hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Aye,” Jack said. “Some things are meant to stay in the past.” And some things are meant to be torched so no one else can read them.

Gibbs nodded and touched the torch to the old wood. The flames took quickly, bright and hungry. Jack watched until the box was nothing but ash. Until the memory felt lighter somehow, as though it no longer had the power to anchor him to what might have been.

At last, he turned away.

He felt raw, exposed. But also, free.

The cavern seemed smaller now. Less ominous. He stepped out into the dawn, where the tide was beginning to rise.

“Captain,” Gibbs asked gently, “what now?”

Jack shaded his eyes, watching the sky lighten to a delicate gold. A breeze lifted the ends of his hair. For the first time in a long while, he felt ready to sail on without regret.

“We go forward,” he said simply. “New seas, Mister Gibbs. New legends. And maybe…less cursed gold.”

As they returned to the Black Pearl, Jack felt the island recede behind him, not as an enemy, but as an old teacher. Isla de Muertos had not changed. But he had.

And that, he realized, was all that mattered.

Standing at the helm, he felt the familiar thrill of the open sea calling to him. He lifted his chin, a smile curling his lips.

It felt like the first time.

But it was better.

Because he knew now what it meant to return, and to leave again, not in shame or fear, but in acceptance. The past would always be part of him. But it would never again command his course.

The Black Pearl caught the wind, her sails swelling as if eager to be away. Jack held the wheel steady, feeling a quiet exhilaration as the horizon stretched wide before them.

There would be other islands, other adventures, other impossible quests. And one day, perhaps, another love. Preferably less inclined to stab him.

But for now, there was the sea, and himself. And for the first time in all his years, that was enough.